


princess of thieves

by ravenkisa



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Robin Hood, Alternate Universe - Vaguely Medieval????, F/M, Minor Character Death
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-06
Updated: 2014-08-06
Packaged: 2018-02-12 00:27:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,537
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2088789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ravenkisa/pseuds/ravenkisa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clarke Griffin is a highborn lady convicted of treason and on the run from the Ark's forces. Bellamy Blake is the leader of a group of thieving outlaws, or the 100, as they call themselves. By chance, their paths meet, and shenanigans ensue, such as flirty arguments, reluctant co-leadership and planning to overthrow the government. A Robin Hood AU, essentially.</p>
            </blockquote>





	princess of thieves

**Author's Note:**

> All credit for inspiring this fic goes to [greenfaeriefly](http://greenfaeriefly.tumblr.com/post/93466171744/do-you-take-prompts-if-so-what-about-an-au-where/)  
> for her beautiful headcanons about a Bellarke Robin Hood au, bless her.
> 
> A million thanks to my loves, Laura and Ally for reading this over and pushing me to post it. (I'm so sorry I made you promise to make me write this and then went on to watch Outlander and play 2048 for three hours instead, whoops)
> 
> This is my first fic that's not a small oneshot, so I'm actually really nervous about posting it?? Gosh, I hope you guys like it though, I did my best :)

It isn't until they lock cuffs around her wrists so she can attend her father's funeral that Clarke realizes what she has become.

A treasonous ward of the state, a highborn daughter fallen from grace. A criminal.

For a second she wants to laugh at herself for ever believing that things wouldn't turn out the way they had. Born in the belly of the beast, yet ignorant of its claws and teeth. She almost laughs, yes, until her eyes fall on her father's pale corpse and the mottled bruises around his neck. Then it's all she can do to keep herself from throwing up.

They've placed her in a corner, some distance away from the rich, distinguished patrons paying their respects. There's even a guard standing by her, to ensure she doesn't, what, run away? As if she's stupid enough to attempt an escape from the palace grounds in broad daylight. As if she's unaware that half the King's Guard is stationed at various points around the area, ready to shoot her in the back before she could take one step towards freedom. _Maybe that wouldn't be so bad_ , a part of her whispers, and for a few moments she entertains the idea of a theatrically tragic death in front of the entire court, before another voice in her head that sounds alarmingly like her father tells her to _hush up and quit daydreaming at her own dad's funeral, goddammit._

Why they're even giving him a funeral, after hanging him like a common thief or murderer, is beyond her. She wasn’t at the execution, of course, she was locked in the dungeons at the time, but the prison guards were much freer with their gossip late at night when she finally stopped trying to draw pictures with her fingers on the musty dirt floor and feigned sleep. "Nobody was allowed in there, 'cept the royal council and the hangman," they muttered, “ and not a soul knows what he or the girl did, aside from commit some sorta treason." "I hear the king is giving Griffin a lord's funeral, in spite of his treachery, 'cos of the love he bore him," a young guard piped up, and the others laughed. "Aye, the love he bore him," a gruff voice rang out, "More like an excuse to pander to the fucking courtiers, to make a show of his so-called compassion," and Clarke, curled up in her dark cell, was more than inclined to agree.

 So when the captain of the guard showed up this morning with a clean change of clothes and ordered her to get dressed for Lord Griffin’s burial service, she was surprised to say the least. Standing here now, though, a bound prisoner out of place amongst the nobility she once belonged to, she understands. Having her at this event is a calculated act—it helps the royals look charitable for allowing a criminal to pay her last respects to her father and simultaneously makes her an example. _This is what you could become_ , her presence says to the nobles milling around her, _should you believe yourself above the king._

A murmur rises in the crowd all of a sudden and Clarke looks up to see King Jaha striding purposefully to the center of the burial ground, coming to a stop directly in front of her father's coffin. She can see Wells standing behind him, his back straight and his eyes cast down, as if he's afraid to look at the body—or ashamed. _Good_ , she thinks, _he should be ashamed_.

Next to Wells, on the other side of the king, she can make out her mother's face, and Clarke wonders how she can stand so close to her husband's executioner without a shred of disgust on her face. But then, it's not truly surprising, she reasons with herself. Lady Griffin had ever been the politician in their family. Clarke tries to catch her eye—it’s been two weeks since she’s seen her, but her mother stares straight ahead with no indication that she’s even noticed Clarke.

Jaha clears his throat, impatiently waving away the man who steps in to try and announce the king’s presence.

"My loyal friends and subjects, 'tis with a heavy heart that I stand before you today. I shall keep this brief, for I am aware that at times like these, words are not enough to soothe your grief. But regardless, I hope speaking about our fallen friend will bring us some small measure of comfort." He stops speaking for a moment to heave a sigh, apparently overcome with emotion, and Lord Kane steps forward to place a comforting hand on his shoulder.

"Lord Jacob Griffin was...he was a remarkable man, indeed. He was humble, yet intelligent--softspoken yet firm. A man of many talents, Jake was, a master swordsman, a devoted scholar and an outstanding orator. He was also probably the kindest, most charitable man I ever knew, so eager was he in his devotion to his city and his people." Wells lifts his head to glance at her, and for a second she gazes back, seeking comfort in his warm brown eyes the way she has all her life--until she remembers what he did and turns away with a jolt. _Traitor_ , she reminds herself, _that's all he is to you now_.

"He was my friend and close confidante, someone I could always rely on for advice or support in times of difficulty. To call his death a tragedy would be an understatement--so deeply will he be missed. By his friends and family, yes, but by all of the Ark as well. So many shall mourn his passing." Right on cue, several members of the crowd wipe at their eyes, the priestess purses her lips in commiseration and Lady Griffin allows a single tear to fall on her cheek. Clarke sucks in a deep breath and tries to conjure up the blank, stoic expression her mother wears whenever one of her patients dies. She refuses to weep for her father here, at this mockery of a service, in front of the very people who condemned him to death. 

Jaha steps closer to the coffin and looks at her father's body, dressed in the kind of hollow finery he’d never indulged in while alive. "My friend, yours is a loss in our lives that we will never be able to replace. In peace may you leave the shore. In love may you find the next. Safe passage on your travels. May we meet again," he says, and the members of the crowd repeat the saying in hushed whispers.

 _May we meet again_ , Clarke thinks, as the priestess blesses her father with holy water, and four men step forward to lower the body into the earth. For a few minutes, the crowd falls respectfully silent, and then the deed is done.

She stands there, rooted to the ground, as the reverie breaks and people start separating into groups, talking amongst themselves. A steward announces that refreshments have been served in the palace gardens, and it is all she can do not to scream as she watches the nobles set off for the food eagerly, dirt from her father's grave still fresh on their boots.

"May I be excused?” She asks the guard desperately, before any lords or ladies can come up to her and offer their condolences while staring pityingly at her shackled wrists. After exchanging a look with his captain, he nods and silently escorts her back to the dungeons.

She waits till he leaves her alone in the cell to break down, burying her face in her hands as sobs tear themselves from her throat.

 

\--

 

She must have cried herself to sleep at some point because suddenly there are hands on her shoulders, shaking her awake.

"Clarke," someone whispers, "Clarke, wake up, we haven't got much time."

"Mother?" she says incredulously, certain her eyes are failing, that the figure kneeling in front of her cannot possibly be her lady mother. "Mama, is that you?"

"Keep your voice down, darling," Clarke's mother chastises, "Yes, it's me."

"Why are you here? _How_ are you here?" Clarke hisses. "The guards--"

"Are taken care of," her mother says, and gestures to the medicinal pouch hung around her neck.

"Your sleeping draught. In the guardroom wine…?” Her mother nods. “Of course. But what on earth are you doing here?"

"I've just gotten back from a council meeting, my dear," her mother says, freeing Clarke from the shackles on her wrists and ankles with a key she obviously pilfered from the guards. "They have decided on the verdict they'll reach at your trial tomorrow, regardless of how it proceeds."

"And what was the verdict?" She asks, though she's not certain she wants to know.

"They decided, well....they've reached the consensus that the best course of action would be to continue your imprisonment until you come of age, at which time they--" She bites her lip. "At which time they will most likely execute you." She glances at Clarke worriedly. "But of course, I won't let that happen, Clarke, I voted for this verdict because--"

"Wait. You voted to execute me?" Clarke says, unease building in her chest.

"I did, sweetheart, but only because I had to. If I hadn't made them believe I'd given up on you, they would surely think this was my doing." She helps Clarke stand, and starts draping a heavy cloak around her

"They'd think what was your doing?" Clarke says, confused.

"Why, your escape, of course. Why do you think I'm here in the middle of the night? I’ve been planning this since your capture, in the event that the verdict was negative."

"Oh. But won’t they still suspect you? I mean, you’re the only one at court who makes that draught, so it should be pretty easy for them to figure out how the guards were knocked out," Clarke says, as her mother hurriedly slings a cloth bag over her arm and hands her the medicinal pouch. "And does that mean, before, at Dad's funeral, when you wouldn't look at me, was that just--"

"Well then, it’s a good thing I reported a theft from my medicinal bay just last week, isn’t it? They might suspect me, Clarke, but they’ll have no proof and without it they’ll have no grounds to link me to your escape. You’ve quite a few friends at court, and the king has great reason to suspect it was his own son, so they’re unlikely to probe too deep into who exactly helped you escape. And, yes, that was just me trying to publicly distance myself from you, dear," she says as she ties the laces of the cloak tight around Clarke's shoulders. "The king and his council believe that I am thoroughly shocked and disgusted by your acts of treason. I had to make them believe that I had cut ties with you, Clarke, or they'd never have let me stay on the council."

"But why are you staying on the council?" Her mother casts her a questioning glance. "I just mean...Mama, why don't you come with me? We've got more than enough money to start a life elsewhere, and we would be together, away from this fucking court--"

"Language, Clarke," her mother admonishes, ever the lady. "And I can't, you know that. My place is here, at this court, and anyway, you're much more likely to succeed in escaping without me slowing you down. Don't worry, dear, this isn't goodbye forever. I suspect in the time you're away, Wells and I will be able to convince the king to soften his sentence, perhaps even to give you a full pardon, considering your age." Clarke opens her mouth to protest, to state how unlikely it is that Wells would do anything to help, but her mother cuts her off. "It's not ideal, I know and I hate the idea of us being separated but right now my only priority is to keep you safe. Now, we haven't much time, come."

She puts a finger to her lips and pulls Clarke out of the room, leading her down a hallway littered with unconscious guards.

“Mama, I’m—I’m sorry about Dad.” She swallows, her voice suddenly hoarse. “It’s my fault….it’s my fault he’s dead. I’m so, so sorry. If I’d known what would happen--”

Her mother shakes her head and turns to look at her. In the dim lamplight, her wrinkles seem to have deepened and Clarke notices for the first time the weariness etched on her face. “Don’t blame yourself, sweetheart. It wasn’t your fault and he would never want you to feel like it was. He would want safety for you, Clarke, and happiness—not guilt. That is for others to feel,” and before Clarke can ask what that means, they reach the prison’s back exit and her mother spares a second to check if the coast is clear before quickly leading Clarke outside.

“Now, sweetheart, I need you to listen carefully,” Clarke’s mother says with quiet urgency as they walk briskly through the dark city streets. Thankfully this part of town is fairly uninhabited at night, aside from the occasional drunk stumbling out of a tavern. “There’s a horse waiting for you outside the south entrance. You’re going to have to ride west, but you cannot go the whole way on the main road through the outer villages, you hear me? They’ll start sending out search parties as soon as the morning shift guards arrive and discover your absence. I know you’ve never been out there on your own, Clarke, but you need to take one of the small paths through the woodlands—I’ve marked it for you on the map inside this bag. Ride as fast as possible but don’t overwork your horse, and don’t stop at any inns or shops along the way, I’ve packed enough supplies to last you at least a fortnight. Be as inconspicuous as possible—there are bandits in the forest and I hear that gang called the 100 is targeting any traveler who looks wealthy so keep your hood up and if you must talk to anyone, tell them you’re a textile merchant’s daughter visiting your aunt and nothing more. You should be out of the woods within the week, and the path I’ve marked for you will take you straight to Misson,” She finally stops talking to take a breath as they arrive at the south entrance but then rapidly continues.

“Once you’ve crossed the border you should be safe, since the Ark’s forces have no jurisdiction there. Take the northern road to the city, my cousin and his family live there and they will surely offer you refuge. It’s exceedingly important that you remember all that I’ve told you, Clarke,” Her mother says, looking at her intently. “This is no game. Your very life depends on it.” Clarke blinks and nods, more than a little overwhelmed by the breadth of information she’s just received. “Good. I’ll send for you as soon as I possibly can but it’ll be a while until I can communicate with anyone outside the Ark without drawing suspicion.”

She sighs and lifts her hand to stroke Clarke’s cheek. “I’ll miss you dearly. Take care of yourself, dear, and godspeed. May we meet again.” Clarke feels her eyes start to fill up in spite of herself, and she pulls her mother into a brief, tight hug.

“May we meet again, Mama,” she says as they break apart, and her mother smiles before gently pushing her towards the open doors. There’s a saddled black stallion tied to a post outside, and her mother watches from inside the city as Clarke mounts the horse and takes hold of the reins, before turning it around and setting off on the road at a brisk canter.

When she looks back at the city gates one last time, there is no trace of her mother. And Clarke has never felt more adrift in her life.

 

\--

 

It’s been two days since she left the city, a day since she left the main road and veered off towards the woodlands, and although Clarke is loathe to admit it to herself—she’s totally, unquestionably lost.

Not that she has no idea where she is, no. It’s just that the road through the woods may have looked straightforward enough on the map her mother gave her, but in reality there are three different paths in this part of the forest and any of them could easily be the one she needs to take.

She spent the better part of last night camped out on the forest floor, studying the detailed map to figure out which path most resembled the one her mother marked up, but didn’t succeed. If the width of one looks like that of the road on the map, it doesn’t match up in location. If the exact location of one matches that of the map, the vegetation surrounding it doesn’t.

The horse neighs and Clarke looks up from perusing her map for the thousandth time before stretching and getting up so she can feed him a few sugar cubes from her pack. It’s one comfort, at least, having this horse. She might be exhausted, on the run and lost in the middle of nowhere but at least she’s not alone.

He accepts the cubes with a pleased whinny and she can’t help but smile when he nudges his head closer to her hand so she can pet it. In all honesty, she’s never been more appreciative of the riding lessons her father had given her since childhood. Her mother wasn’t exactly approving, as riding wasn’t a very ladylike pursuit, but her dad was adamant that she learn once he saw how much Clarke loved it. _It’s not just for pleasure, Abby, it’s a useful skill for anyone to know,_ he said when her mother protested. Right now, it’s not just useful that she knows how to handle a horse—her life is probably dependent on it.

This horse is nothing like her thoroughbred white mare back home but he’s steady and patient, and can be pretty quick on his feet if she needs him to be. Thankfully, so far, they haven’t encountered any guards or search parties on the roads. Then again, if she lingers in this part of the woods studying a map any longer, that could change soon. Realizing this, she frowns and spares the map a last glance before starting to gather up her things.

If she picks one of the roads without being sure it’s the one she needs to be on, she could very well get even more lost but if she stays here, the danger of being discovered by a search party is too great to countenance. Sighing, she ties her bags to the saddle and leads the horse out to the third path. If she’s wrong, then well, she’ll deal with it at some point but right now her priority is getting out of sight.

She’s been riding for a few minutes when she hears hooves on the road behind her and turns to look. It’s only a common brown mule, and there’s an elderly man astride it. _Probably a villager from these parts_ , Clarke thinks, and wonders if she should ask him for directions. She doesn’t really want to make any acquaintances during this journey but if he’s a local, he could point her in the right direction. And he looks harmless enough to her eyes.

“Excuse me, sir,” she calls and waits for the man and his old mule to catch up with her. “I hate to impose on you but I was merely wondering, is this the path that leads to Misson?” The man looks at her curiously before gesturing to his ear.

“Apologies, miss, could you repeat that? I didn’t quite catch it,” he says, so she leans closer to him to ask him again--only to find a dagger at her throat. She looks at him in alarm as a predatory grin stretches his face. “Noblewoman, are you, lass?” He doesn’t look quite so old or kindly now, she realizes with a start.

“How—” she starts to croak but at that moment the dagger starts to cut into her skin.

“Now, how about you just get down from that horse, there’s a good girl. I’ll not hurt you as long as I get what I want, I swear.” He smiles again and Clarke swallows, wishing for the first time that her father had given her lessons in combat as well as riding. “ _Now_ , girl! We haven’t got all day,” the man barks. She nods gingerly, and holds her hands up before slowly dismounting.

“There we go, lass, that wasn’t so hard, was it? Just stay put now,” the man says, pointing his knife at her throat and before she can decide whether or not to make a run for it, an arrow flies out and embeds itself in a tree branch above the man.

Instantly, he grabs her by the waist and pulls her in front of him, his dagger at her stomach.

“Oi, who’s there?” He shouts, squinting into the wilderness. “This one’s mine, you hear? I know what you are. You’re one of the 100, aren’t you? Go find someone else to rob, you filthy bandits!” The dagger pressed to her side is almost unbearable now and her horse is rearing in alarm but all Clarke can do is watch, caught in what looks to be some ridiculous confrontation between two thieves.

“And if we’re filthy bandits, what does that make you, kind sir?” A boyish, taunting voice calls out from somewhere in the trees. The man growls and turns sharply and Clarke dimly hears a female, much quieter voice say “For fuck’s sake, Jas, would you just get _on_ with it,” before a rock comes flying out of the bushes and straight at the man’s head.

He falls rather unceremoniously, the dagger clattering to the ground and Clarke staggers, almost falling with him, until she manages to grab hold of her horse’s saddle. There are noises coming from the trees, some kind of scuffling, and Clarke kneels down to arm herself with her now unconscious assailant’s dagger, ignoring the sudden, sharp pain at her side.

Slowly, two figures emerge from the green, a tall thin boy with some outlandish contraption on his head and a shorter girl dressed in men’s clothing. _Teenagers_ , she realizes with a start.

“I’d say that was one of my finer moments, wouldn’t you, Raven?” the boy’s saying to the girl, a smirk on his face and Clarke watches unsteadily as the girl shakes her head in exasperation and smacks him on the arm. “I was the one who knocked him out, you idiot. You were just wasting arrows for some stupid posturing thing.”

“I’ll have you know, that was not just a ‘stupid posturing thing.' I was giving him a warning,” the boy says indignantly. “That was ace archery, Raven, and you know it.”

“You were aiming for his shoulder, weren’t you?” the girl replies dryly and the boy gives an affronted scoff and turns his attention towards Clarke instead.

“Good morrow, my lady!” he calls out as he saunters towards her, the girl trailing behind him. In answer, Clarke tightens her hold on the dagger. They don’t look like they’re about strip her of all belongings and slit her throat but then again, given the circumstances, she’s learned not to judge based on appearances.

They come to a stop a few feet away from her, looking over the scene curiously. Clarke decides to get straight to the point, as she’s not sure if she can stay upright much longer.

“Are you going to kill me?” She rasps.

“What? Of course not,” the boy says, and he sounds almost offended. “We were just passing by and noticed this disreputable fellow—” he gestures to the comatose would-be thief splayed out on the ground “—harassing a young lady. So we decided to step in. Can’t have that kind of debauchery happening in our neighborhood, now, can we?”

“So you’re not bandits, then?” She asks, her eyebrows furrowed.

“Oh! Oh, yes, we’re definitely bandits,” the boy replies cheerfully. “Sorry to have given you the wrong impression for a moment there, miss.” Clarke inhales sharply and wonders whether now would be a good time to run but then the girl, _Raven_ , casts an impatient glance at her companion and steps forward.

“Pay him no mind, miss. Look, we may not exactly be straight laced enforcers of the law but we’re not going to attack a defenseless girl and steal her supplies, if that’s what you’re worried about.” Her voice is frank and kind and something about her seems trustworthy, which is ridiculous, Clarke thinks, because she just openly admitted to being a criminal.

“That’s right, we’re bandits with hearts of gold,” the boy says, wincing when the girl rolls her eyes and pinches his arm.

“You’re alright, though aren’t you? That bastard didn’t hurt you?” Raven asks, and Clarke doesn’t know what to say because they’re bandits but they’re not…dangerous bandits? The whole situation is utterly surreal and she’s not entirely sure it’s not all a dream.

“I’m—I’m alright. Thank you, I guess? For saving my life?” Her voice comes out shaky, and weaker than she would have liked. “I’d just like to be on my way, now, if I may. I do appreciate,” she stops to take a deep breath before slowly turning to her horse, “your kindness most gratefully.”

“Are you sure?” Raven asks worriedly, “You look rather faint,” and before Clarke can assure her that she’s fine and that she just wants to leave as soon as possible—she finds herself swaying and collapsing to the ground in a painful heap.

They’re both at her side in a flash, the girl expertly checking Clarke for injuries. “Her side, Jasper.” Clarke inhales sharply as fingers gently probe the wound she wasn’t aware existed. “He must have slashed it with that knife. It’s deep.”

“What should we do?” Jasper asks, absolutely serious, and Clarke hazily registers the sudden change in his manner. “The closest village is at least six miles away.”

“I’m going to try and stop the bleeding but she needs medical attention, as soon as possible. I think…I think we’re going to have to take her to the camp. I know, Jas, I know it’s a terrible idea but the camp is closest right now.”  Jasper swears loudly and Clarke wonders faintly what ‘the camp’ is but then her vision starts to blur so her thoughts move to more pressing matters, such as the two bandits lifting her and placing her on the horse. _I need to go_ , she tries to tell them, _just leave me alone,_ but the words won’t come and then someone is swinging onto the saddle behind her and urging the horse forward and she tastes blood in her mouth.

The last words she hears before blacking out are “Fucking hell. Bellamy’s going to kill us.”

 

 


End file.
